


I'm Searching for Something That I Can't Reach

by MeghanAnna



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 02:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeghanAnna/pseuds/MeghanAnna
Summary: Bellamy has been peacefully haunting his childhood home since his death in 1951 and has not seen a living human for 30 years when Clarke Griffin shows up, being chased by a knife wielding murderer.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa. This got away from me a little. It's almost more angsty than scary. Well, no. It's definitely more angsty than scary. Sorry!

Bellamy doesn’t mind being dead. Not really. Sure, at first it was hard. He stayed behind in his old house, watching his sister finish growing up and move on without him. That sucked.

When she moved out—to get married and start a family with someone Bellamy had never even met—he continued to stay behind in the house. And he’s been there— _alone—_ for almost sixty years. He thinks. It’s hard to tell without having someone to gauge the passage of time from.

But, it really doesn’t bother him. Octavia cleaned out all of his things soon after he died, but before she was able to, he would sneak out from the attic—or basement, or wherever he was hiding out that day to keep out of his sister’s hair—and grab a few things he knew he would want. He had books. So many books. He had a couple of framed pictures of him with his friends. Some of his sister and mother. And, then, he had a couple of his records and his record player. It always surprised him that Octavia never noticed they were missing.

She’d spent a lot of time in his room in the first few months he was dead. But as time moved on, she realized she had to, too. And she did. She made new friends, but kept close with his. She met boys, but never brought them to their house. He only ever heard her talking to them on the phone or outside when they walked her home at the end of the night. On the nights she came home at all, that is.

Bellamy didn’t blame her for moving on. She was twenty-two when he had died and she had done everything she could to take care of him. But the sickness came on too quickly and by the time the doctors realized just how sick he’d gotten, it was too late. He was twenty-seven.

By the time Octavia had reached the age he’d been when he passed, she was engaged. She moved out just before her twenty-eighth birthday, leaving Bellamy alone with his books, pictures, and music that he’d kept hidden in the crawl spaces she never had to worry about when he was alive.

The house was in good condition when he died. It was in good condition when Octavia moved out. But, now, the elements have gotten to it and the lack of neighbors made it easy to forget. The house sits alone in the woods—the trees so overgrown that Bellamy can’t see out the windows anymore. But it’s okay.

He’s gotten used to being on his own. He can read his favorite books over and over—some for the hundredth time. He can listen to his favorite songs and remember the girls he was kissing when they played on the radio. He can look at his pictures and imagine all of the wonderful things the people he left behind were able to go on and do.

He has a lot of time to think about all of the things he never got to do—all of the things he hopes his friends and sister were able to. Bellamy never got to travel. He was too busy taking care of his sister after their mother passed away. He never got to fall in love. He fell into _bed_ plenty of times, but never in love. He never got to give a speech at Miller’s wedding. He never got to have his own. He never got to have children. That hurt him the most.

Bellamy remains in that house, by himself, because it’s easiest. Whatever purgatory he’s in could be a lot worse. He still _feels_ alive, even though he knows better. Sometimes he just sits in the middle of his old bedroom and switches between being completely invisible, to looking like a totally normal twenty-seven-year-old man. He keeps his eyes on his right hand as light begins to shine through it until it’s not there at all. He’s proud of that, actually. It took him quite a while to perfect.

What he’s not proud of, though, is how excited he gets when he hears voices outside of his house. He always listens for as long as possible. He misses human connection. Even while Octavia was still in the house, Bellamy had to keep to himself. He never minded being alone when he was alive—he thrived on it, usually. But after sixty-five years, it’s gotten a little old.

So, yes, he does sit by the windows he can no longer see out of and listen to the voices outside. He hasn’t been out there since the week before he passed away—the day he got sick—but he can imagine it as it was then.

The house has always been surrounded by trees and bushes, but he was able to see to the road once upon a time. When he was little, he would cut through the woods in the back of his house to get to Miller’s house and the woods to the right to get to Murphy’s. He’d climb out of his window and down the closest tree to sneak out of his house and run a mile or two to help whichever girl he was seeing at the time sneak out of her own bedroom.

When he got older and his mother passed away, he’d drive to see his friends and whoever he was sleeping with at the time. But he always ran in the woods to stay in shape. He and Octavia would camp out there sometimes until she got too old and found him too annoying. He used to love the woods.

Now, he only has his house to love and whoever dares to walk through the thick woods surrounding it to listen to.

He’s heard teenagers who were afraid they were lost. He’s heard hiking adults mock his house for being so unkempt. It’s been a while, but people of all ages used to try and break in. Only one person ever made it inside and Bellamy left him alone while he poked around the first floor. A sound from outside sent him running. Bellamy waited almost a day before shutting the door and making sure it was locked. That was almost thirty years ago. Since then, few have tried and failed. He’d wager a guess that it’s been over a year since he’s heard voices outside at all.

But they’re out there now. He stands with his back to the front door, in his stereotypical ghost-like, semi-transparent state—his default state. And he listens. It’s two women who sound to be about his age. Or, at least the age he was when he died. They’re close, too.

It seems like they’re just walking through, but they had to get through some thick trees to get that close. They don’t seem to mind, though, and as they get closer, Bellamy changes his appearance again so they would never see him if they got to a window and glanced inside.

They’re laughing as they stop near the door and he yearns to feel that free again. They stop suddenly, though, when the sound of a man’s voice appears at the backside of Bellamy’s house. He’s torn, doesn’t know if he should stay and listen to the girls, drift to the back to see if the man is alone, or go upstairs and forget any of it is happening.

The girls make up his mind for him when they decide to bolt. One—a girl with a low, husky voice that would have driven him crazy sixty-five years ago—tells the other that they’ll come back in a couple of days to take some pictures. Whatever that means. Who wants pictures of an old, decrepit house in the woods?

When they leave, Bellamy glances out the window and is shocked to _see_ them. A blonde and a brunette dressed in thin, fall jackets with wool hats on their heads. They’re still smiling and talking, but walking noticeably faster than is normal. Not that Bellamy has any idea what normal is these days. Maybe women walk so fast they’re practically running under normal circumstances.

Or maybe they heard that voice behind Bellamy’s home and knew the smart thing to do was run away from it.

\--

After the girls leave and he doesn’t hear the man’s voice or footsteps any longer, Bellamy goes back to what he’s been doing for the last sixty-years since Octavia moved out. Which is not much of anything.

He likes to walk around the house and imagine what it would look like today. He doesn’t have much of an idea what’s in fashion at the moment, but seeing just a brief glimpse of those women made his mind run wild. When he was alive, no one dressed the way they were dressed. But—somehow—Bellamy liked what they were wearing. Not for any superficial reason, but because he could see they were comfortable. In their clothes and their own skin. Their pants were tight and their boots were tall, but they walked easily and confidently through the woods.

He envisions a similar, laid back design inside his house. Clean lines and bold colors that never would have felt right sixty-five years ago.

His house—or, his sister’s house, technically—used to be nice. And the land surrounding it, too. His mother had inherited the land and his father had built the house. It was a strong house, a good house. And when his father died when he was three, leaving him and his mother with nothing, she never even tried to sell the land they weren’t using. When Octavia came along two years later and her father ran far away, she still didn’t sell.

They owned a lot of land with only one decent sized house on it. When Bellamy’s mother died, the land and the house belonged to him, but he was only nineteen. He had no idea what to do with it. When he died, they belonged to Octavia. He had to believe they still did, or he’d be hiding out somewhere else by now.

He really wishes he understood how ghosts worked. He wasn’t really sure why he was still there at all. He wouldn’t mind the kind of afterlife he’d imagined as a child. He never once believed in ghosts and he made sure Octavia never did, either. It was hard to refute they were real now. But, were they all as peaceful as him? He hoped so, but he somehow knew better. He knew they were using their positions to scare and snoop and maybe even worse.

Maybe there were others out there like him, scaring others enough to cause blood curdling screams. It was just past dusk one evening—in what must have been late October—when he heard one of those screams in the woods. He wasn’t alone out there anymore. Maybe the people causing that scream were alive. It was hard to tell. There was bad everywhere. Always had been.

But that scream he heard—it would have stopped his heart if it was still working. It scared _him_ and he was already dead. He couldn’t even fathom what caused someone to scream like that. But when he heard it again—closer than before—he took the form of a live human. Or, as alive as he could look. There was always some sort of glow around him, regardless of his form. If someone saw him, they would know something wasn’t right.

The screams turned into pleads. It was a voice—vaguely familiar—pleading for her life. There was no other voice, though, so Bellamy wasn’t sure who she was pleading to. Maybe whoever they were running from wasn’t as quick as she was. Maybe they weren’t willing to be heard. He wasn’t sure.

But he was sure that he could now hear footsteps—only one set so far—and he unlocked the front door. When a flash of blonde hair ran past his front window, he froze. One of the women from a few days earlier was back. And she was scared. And he was happy he had unlocked the front door because she propelled through it with such force, she probably would have broken it all together just to get in if he hadn’t.

She screamed again when she set eyes on him and he cursed himself for not hiding. But he _couldn’t_. As soon as he had seen it was her, he couldn’t move or change his appearance. He stood—just as shocked and afraid as the living girl—in the middle of his empty, lifeless house. When she screams again, it almost feels like he comes back to life.

He doesn’t—obviously—but he does spring into action.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises and this time she’s so shocked, she can’t even scream. She just reaches for the camera hanging around her neck for something to hold onto. “I swear.”

The girl looks at him— _really_ looks at him—and he knows she sees it. She can tell something is off. Maybe she can even tell what it is.

“Please,” he begs her, glancing through the open door. The walkway he remembers from when he was alive is still there, but just barely. He can see down it for a bit before the trees and brambles cut it off. He can’t see anyone, but he does hear another set of feet now. “Please believe me. Because whoever is following you will know where you’re hiding. Close the door. Lock it. Give me a couple of seconds to figure something out.”

She’s crying silently now, her whole body shaking, but she does what he asks and he nods to himself. “What are you?” she asks when he starts pacing. “What is going on?”

“I’m dead,” he explains bluntly. Time is of the essence, after all. The girl falls to her knees. He wants to reach for her, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he does. “I died a long time ago. I wouldn’t know how to hurt you even if I wanted to.”

The girl nods, but covers her face when the footsteps become clearer and closer. Bellamy looks at her and again wants to reach for her. And, on impulse, he does.

Bellamy grabs one of her wrists and watches a shiver run through her body. His hand stays wrapped around her, which surprises him, but it makes sense. When he picks up a book to read, it takes whatever form he does.

“I don’t know if this will work,” he warns her, but she stands and holds her other arm out for him. She knows as well as he does that she has no other options. The footsteps have reached the house. There is pounding at his front door.

Bellamy takes hold of her elbow and pulls her closer to his body. He starts the process of disappearing and she stares at him the entire time, her mouth wide open. He lets go of her wrist and puts a finger to his lips just before the door pops open and she nods.

They move to the back corner of the living room as the man enters wielding a large knife. An unbelievable surge of anger runs through Bellamy. This man is much larger than the girl in Bellamy’s arms. He’s a predator, preying on an innocent woman. A woman who—by the looks of the man—already got away from him with a few hard hits and scratches to his face and neck. And his anger is replaced by pride, for just a second. Because she may be small, but she’s strong and capable. But she’s not strong enough for a man of that size. No matter how capable she is, he has the upper hand and the weapon to go with it.

The man with the knife screams in frustration. Bellamy is sure he’d start kicking furniture in his path if Octavia had left anything behind. He’s irate that the woman he was chasing—planning to kill, no doubt—isn’t where he thought she’d be. He runs up the stairs, putting a hole in one of them with his heavy boot and the girl puts a hand on Bellamy’s chest to steady herself. It doesn’t work, though, it goes right through him. He, apparently, can hold her, but she cannot to do the same to him. So, he holds onto both of her elbows and she bows her head toward him as they listen to the pounding feet above their heads.

“There’s a crawl space behind the kitchen,” he whispers and she nods, too afraid to move. “I’ll take you there and when he comes down the stairs, I can scare him.”

“You’re not very threatening,” she says, looking up at him. She’s still crying, but he can’t help but smile. He never was very threatening. “Even for a dead person. A ghost?”

“I guess,” he shrugs. “Come on.”

Bellamy tugs her into the kitchen and pushes open the door to the crawl space. It’s tight, but it’s just large enough for her. He doesn’t let her go, though. Not yet.

“When I let go, you’re going to look like a normal, living human. I can’t hide you unless I’m holding onto you,” he says quietly and she nods frantically. “I’m assuming, I mean. I’ve never actually done this.”

“You let go, I’ll close the door,” she says and he nods. “Thank you.”

“Shh,” he tells her and he lets go. She comes to life in a flash of colors. When he’d been holding her, her green jacket and purple hat were muted to him. Now they’re bright as ever. He nods to her one last time as feet start to descend the stairs and she closes the door quickly and quietly.

He makes it to the bottom of the stairs before the man does and when he’s in sight of him, he slowly begins the transformation from invisible to human-like ghost. The man with the knife sees it all and nearly falls down the last few steps. Bellamy holds himself as high and threateningly as he can. He watches as the man realizes what he is until he screams. It’s a scream of terror, but also anger. In seconds, the knife comes for Bellamy’s lifeless body, but he doesn’t move. He’s dead. What is a knife going to do but slash through him like air? Which is exactly what it does.

This man, whoever he is, can’t touch Bellamy. But Bellamy knows he can touch him. So, that’s what he does. He throws the knife across the living room and grabs his neck, pushing him to lie flat against the stairs.

“Get out of my house and off of my land,” he warns. He can see the fear in the man’s eyes. The anger is gone completely now that Bellamy has a hold on him. “Stay away from it for the rest of your sad, pathetic life. Do you understand?”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even nod. So, Bellamy squeezes his neck harder until he does and he lets go.

“Go,” he says and the man scrambles to his feet, running fast and far through the woods, and Bellamy collapses on the stairs.

Maybe he should have killed him, so he couldn’t hurt or try to hurt anyone else. Bellamy may be a monster, technically, but he isn’t a killer. He never was. He never wants to be.

Once Bellamy finally moves off the stairs to close the front door—leaving it unlocked for the girl to leave as soon as she’s out of the crawl space—he lets her out. She thanks him over and over through a flood of tears and he just nods. What else was he supposed to do? He wasn’t going to let her die.

She finally stops thanking him and talking altogether when she remembers what he is and he notices a flash of fear in her features. “You should leave and find a phone,” he tells her. “Call the police. Tell them everything that happened.”

“I should probably leave you out of it,” she teases as she pulls a small rectangle from her jacket pocket.

“What is that?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him and she smiles just slightly.

“A phone,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How long have you been here?”

“Forever,” he explains, still staring at the rectangle in her hand. _A phone?_ How?  “I lived here my entire life. And I’ve lived here since I died. Although, I guess I don’t _live_ here anymore. But I don’t like to think I’m haunting it either. I’m just here, I guess.”

“You’re Bellamy?” she asks carefully and it stuns him. She smiles when he nods his confirmation. “Wow. I’m Clarke.” She holds out her hand for him to shake, so he does. Quickly, though because she shivers again when his hand curls around hers.

“How do you know who I am?”

“Octavia,” she says and Bellamy reaches for his neck because he just needs to hold something, _feel_ something. _His sister_. Clarke wipes away the rest of her tears and holds up the phone. “I’ll explain it as soon as I’m done this phone call. That lunatic can’t be out there. He’s clearly dangerous.”

“I’d like to hear that story, too,” he says and she nods before pushing out of the kitchen to make the call.

Bellamy doesn’t know how long it takes for the police to get to his house, but he hears them talking and asking Clarke questions. She announces—just loud enough for him to hear—where she hid, and Bellamy goes invisible before she enters, flanked by three officers.

He sneaks by them and past the other three in the living room and on the stairs until he gets to his room. He stays there, in that state, until he can hear them leaving. They offer Clarke a ride to the station and she accepts the offer. Bellamy isn’t sure why it feels like his useless heart breaks when the door finally closes behind her.

\--

Bellamy remains in the house, but not alone for at least three days. Officers come and go. He even hears Clarke with them once, but she must leave with them again, because she doesn’t look for him.

He’s not surprised. He can’t really blame her. He’s dead. He’s a ghost. He’s nothing.

It’s the knock on the front door that _does_ surprise him. Everyone knows that house is there for the taking and breaking in. Windows are broken and the door has been left unlocked since Clarke left the first time. He can’t even imagine who would _knock_.

“I was trying to be polite,” Clarke announces when she finally pushes herself inside. Bellamy smiles to himself before letting her see him and she smiles when he appears human-like in front of her. “Hi.”

“You shouldn’t be in these woods by yourself,” he warns her and she shrugs. “Why did you come back?”

“I promised I’d tell you how I knew who you were,” she reminds him. Bellamy nods and she closes the door behind her and sits on the floor. She stares at him until he sits in front of her. “Your sister is one tough old lady. She said that comes from you.”

“I barely had enough time with her to pass anything down. I practically died from a cold. I was never as tough as I pretended to be.”

“She misses you,” Clarke says and he wants to cry. He misses her, too. More than anything. “But, she’s done very well for herself since you passed away. I think you’d be proud.”

“I knew she would.”

“She still owns the land and this house. These woods are the only ones around in a ten mile radius. You wouldn’t even recognize the town today. Octavia tells me you would _hate_ it. Which is why she won’t let go of the land.”

“She should,” he says, but he’s not sure he means it. What would happen to him if she did?

“She’s eighty-seven,” Clarke reminds him. “Every time someone tries to buy it, she tells them they’ll have to wait until she’s dead and duke it out with whoever else wants it. She says it belongs to you and she has no right to sell it.”

“Eighty-seven?” he asked, disbelieving. “So I’d be…”

“Ninety-two,” Clarke confirms and he collapses against himself. “Or dead.”

Bellamy barks out a laugh and glances at her face. She’s beautiful when she smiles. If she’d been around town when he was alive, he would have married her. But, then, she would have been one more person he left behind. So, it’s probably for the best she wasn’t.

“A developer has been fighting for the land for a year and the paper is running a story on it,” she explains and he nods.

“The camera,” he mentions and she reaches for it, around her neck again. It doesn’t look like any camera he’d seen when he was alive, but the lens tipped him off the first time he saw it. “The girl you were with before?”

“Raven,” she says excitedly. “You knew we were here?”

“I saw you,” he nods. “You two were the first people I’d seen in thirty years.”

“Wow,” she mouths and he laughs again. “Raven is writing the story. I take the pictures. She bailed on me when I came back. Her boyfriend needed her help with something. I just came to the edge of the woods to get some creepy pictures at dusk to set the tone for the story, you know?”

Bellamy nods and she takes the camera off to show him some pictures on a tiny screen. Creepy is a good word to describe the woods and the house. And him.

“Then that asshole-,” her voice breaks and a sob escapes, but she sets her shoulders back and breathes and she’s back to her old, confident self. “He came for me. I don’t even know him. But I saw him in the woods when I was with Raven. He must have seen me, too. At least, that’s what he told the cops.”

“They found him?” he asks and the thought makes him smile. Clarke nods enthusiastically. “So, you’re safe?”

“As safe as I can be, talking to a ghost.”

“Right.” They both laugh. When Clarke settles down, she holds out her hand and Bellamy reaches for it without hesitation. “What does it feel like?”

“It’s hard to explain,” she says, looking at their hands. “Octavia doesn’t know you’re here, does she? If she did, she never would have left.”

“I don’t want her to know, Clarke.” She looks up at him at the sound of her name and he sees something new on her face. Sadness. “How do you know her?”

“I went with Raven on her interviews for the story. Octavia and I kind of hit it off. She’s _very_ wise. And lonely. Her husband died last year and her kids and grandchildren are pretty far away. I’m always happy to keep her company.”

“How many kids?” Bellamy asks and his own voice breaks with a sob.

“Three,” Clarke says carefully. “Two boys and a girl. Seven grandkids.”

“Wow.”

Clarke nods and they watch each other for a few moments. “Why do you stay here?” she finally asks him. “I mean, you could go anywhere. You could go to Octavia or to Prague or Paris, if you wanted to. Why stay in this house?”

“It’s the only place I’ve ever known. And I don’t know if I could handle the world as it is today. I could barely handle it as it was in 1951,” he says and she just shakes her head.

“No, I don’t believe that. You could handle it. Octavia says that you were her hero, that you could handle anything.”

“Then maybe I just don’t want to,” he admits. “It’s not like I can participate in the world today. I don’t know how society works. I don’t know how people interact. I don’t know how a telephone can fit into your pocket or how you can carry pictures in that camera. I’m dead, Clarke. I’m trapped in this body—that isn’t even a body—of a twenty-seven year old man who died _sixty-five_ years ago. So, I’ve trapped that body in the only home I’ve ever known. I did this to myself and I plan to stay here until Octavia finally sells the land or… Or until she dies and it’s left to the highest bidder.”

“I don’t know how to leave here and pretend I’m not holding your hand right now,” Clarke admits. “This is real for me. _You’re_ real. And I’m the only person who knows you’re here.”

“Not the only person,” he reminds her, squeezing her hand and she shakes her head.

“No one believes him,” she explains. “Pretty soon he won’t believe himself.”

“When you leave, don’t come back,” he says and she take her hand back roughly. “I don’t know how much longer I have here. Maybe I really die when this house gets demolished. My soul will go wherever my body’s ended up. Or maybe it’s waiting for Octavia, too. I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t want to become your local friendly ghost that you come to when you need a friend. I can’t be your friend. I can’t leave you like I left my sister. I don’t want to do that to another person. So, please. Live your life and forget I’m here.”

“You don’t get a say in how I remember you,” Clarke tells him and there are tears in her eyes.

“Then let me have a say in how everyone else remembers this house,” he begs and a sob escapes her. “What happened to you will be a story until the next crazy thing happens. But if people find out you’ve been coming back here, they’ll follow suit. I don’t want you to miss me when I’m gone for good, but I also don’t want to miss you. I don’t want to miss life more than I already do.”

Clarke considers him and he pleads with his eyes. Finally, she holds her hand out for him again and he takes it. He already doesn’t want to let it go. Maybe he’s just missed human connection, but something tells him it’s more than that. It’s her.

“I’ll probably have to come by again with the paper,” she says quietly, wiping one last stray tear away with her free hand. “But, lock the door when I leave today and I won’t come inside. The cops have that asshole, so they won’t be bothering you anymore. I won’t mention anything to Octavia, but you have to know she’d want-“

“ _Please_ , Clarke.”

“I won’t say anything,” she promises again and lets it go. “I hope you find peace soon, Bellamy. You deserve it.”

“I hope you have a very good life, Clarke. _You_ deserve it.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://bellamyfrecklefaceblake.tumblr.com)!


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